The Rush

You need to go to the toilet. Not in five minutes, or even three. It’s pretty urgent.

The street is bustling with a large crowd, and to be fair, it is the middle of the dinner rush down the main street of the city.

You look up at the dozens of restaurants and shops. Where would the toilet be?

Your steps begin to become wider and further apart as you scan the street for anywhere that there could be a bathroom to use. Nature doesn’t usually wait.

Then, you see it. A hotel a few shops down.

Perfect!

Yet, there are dozens of people in fine suits and dresses making their way up the steps to the entrance.

And the problem is - you’re wearing a hoodie, shorts and a pair of sandals.

You are not going to fit in, clearly.

You approach the steps with the security detail surrounding the entrance to the hotel. A red carpet is laid out, with elegant bouquets of flowers, paparazzi flashing several photographs and half a dozen journalists from the local news stations interviewing the guests as they arrive.

One of the security officers notices you and smiles. You shyly smile back and ask if there is any way to use the facilities.

“Of course, right this way!” he replies as he guides you up the red carpet towards the door.

“Pose!”

“Stop, just a couple of photos!”

The paparazzi have noticed you as you’re guided up toward the building.

You are confused beyond belief. But you do as you’re told and stop while camera upon camera flashes photos of you in your hoodie, shorts and sandals.

A couple walks past in the finest gown you have ever seen, and a tuxedo so finely made that you look like a peasant. And, to be honest, you feel so out of place that hiding would be the better option right now.

After going partially blind from the tsunami of camera flashes, your now-personal security detail escorts you through the crowd and toward two huge closed wooden doors.

You know from experience; these doors don’t look like the entrance to the toilets.

You ask the security officer, “Are these the toilets? And there’s no need for all the fuss.”

He nods and pulls open one of the doors.

The door swings open and reveals a room with hundreds of people chatting and mingling. Some are holding glasses of champagne while others laugh and smile.

Then every face turns and looks directly at you.

Suddenly, a round of applause so loud erupts from the room, slightly frightening you.

Then, from nowhere, someone dressed in all black with headphones and a microphone, approaches you.

“Finally! You’re here. Follow me, quickly!”

They grab your hand as the applause continues, and you’re dragged towards the front of the room, where a large stage with a podium and several large screens has been set up.

You try and pull your arm away.

You try and explain that you just need to use the bathroom, and quite frankly, it has become a matter of urgency beyond urgency.

“Absolutely - just after your keynote address to the crowd.”

You are stunned. In fact, you’re so stunned your bladder has temporarily short-circuited.

You feel inner peace for just a moment, before the confusion and the urgency return ten-fold.

Your gut rumbles.

You pull back on the person dragging you to the stage.

“Quickly! We have no time!” the person whispers.

Correct, you think to yourself.

There is no time at all.

Nature is certainly calling.

Within seconds, you’re walking up several stairs on the side of the stage. Introduction music plays as the lights dim and one lone spotlight shines onto the podium, with a long microphone pinned at the centre.

“You’ve got this!” they say as you’re pushed into the light.

The crowd erupts again, cheering and clapping with what seems to feel like an eternity.

For a moment, you look down and see what you’re wearing.

Surely this is a joke, right?

You turn and look over your right shoulder and see a photo of yourself on the large screen with ‘Guest of Honour’ listed under the photo of you.

The applause slows down and you open your mouth to make your opening remarks.

Yet, you don’t have a speech written.

Obviously.

Your priority is the bathroom - not the stage.

Your stomach rumbles again, this time it feels more like an emergency.

There is a high chance the speech will include visual effects and not just be a speech.

You stare at the audience, then the microphone.

“Well…”

You begin, “I didn’t expect to be standing here tonight,” as the crowd starts to laugh.

You look towards the wings of the stage, where your frantic guide from earlier is cheering you on silently.

“Um, well, I must say this has been such a huge misunderstanding. I honestly just need to use the bathroom.”

Silence fills the room as the last few chuckles echo into the distance.

You can feel the room shift.

And your bowels.

You feel the rumbling again, and you grip the sides of the podium with all your strength.

BRRRRRRRRRR.

The whole room has now heard your need for the bathroom.

A small giggle from the front.

Then from the middle.

Followed through from somewhere in the back.

A scenario you desperately do not want.

Then cheers and applause.

You look at the crowd.

You decide the time is now.

You walk down the front of the stage into the crowd of distinguished guests.

Backstage, the crew are frantically trying to usher you to get you back on stage, simply by waving their hands in the air.

You suddenly feel a burst of confidence and shout, “Where is the toilet?!”

Everyone stops and goes silent – again.

Then, one by one, the crowd starts to point toward the doors on the right-hand side of the room.

You begin to walk toward them as the crowd parts down the middle, providing a relatively easy grand entrance to the lavatory.

Then you see it.

A port-a-loo.

Weird, you think.

A port-a-loo in such an upper-class hotel, for an event like this?

Your gut rumbles louder as you hear murmuring through the crowd.

You walk toward the door to the toilet and walk on in. You turn and lock it.

The relief.

This is inner peace.

You sit and let what will be, be.

You sit there for a few minutes, allowing yourself to soak in the quietness and stillness of the emotions of finally finding a toilet.

Then you look down.

What’s that?

Then you feel the dread, followed by embarrassment.

There, on the left-hand side of your hoodie, near your shoulder, is a small clip-on microphone.

Then it hits you.

The crowd outside has heard every possible sound—and groan.

Your face goes red.

That person wearing the headphones and microphone must have clipped it on you while you were too busy trying to find the toilet earlier.

You wait a few more minutes while you compose yourself before unlocking the door and stepping out.

Then, behold—a migration of the crowd has moved from where the stage was to where you are.

You look to your left and see a couple of men in hi-vis clothing wheeling in another port-a-loo.

Then, further down, you see some flashy toilets being set up on display.

It can’t be.

Surely, it can’t be.

Then you look up.

No.

It can’t.

‘The Annual Toilet Awards Conference.’

You stop, bright red, and then notice the faces of the crowd change from smiles to disgust.

You weren’t kidding.

But they were.

It wasn’t a real toilet.

And all you can think of is—

Shit.